


Collide

by siegeinterrupted (smasharchived)



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: FYR6 Summer Prompts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 09:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smasharchived/pseuds/siegeinterrupted
Summary: Lion hadn't meant to become a grudging guardian, but even he can't ignore a man that's sick.Even if that man is Thatcher.





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**Author's Note:**

> I promised I'd write a drabble for the FYR6 Summer Prompts list, and here it is. I'm not sure if it's good, but it was fun trying to think up a new Lion / Thatcher dynamic and dialogue. Hope someone enjoys, if you're still reading ❤.
> 
> French --  
> Non = No  
> Non, merci = No, thank you  
> Merci = Thank you  
> Merde = Fuck  
> Branleur = Wanker  
> Je t'ai trouvé = I found you.
> 
> Russian --  
> Da = Yes

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

Sparks track through the dark like fireflies.

Drifting high above the summit, they swirl and dance. Soft shades of orange blinking in a mesmerizing rhythm before fading into the night sky. With his face turned towards the heavens, Lion watches the smoky trail, only daring to appreciate the view for a few seconds after catching sight of Trace hauling another log towards the bonfire.

‘Jordan _, don’t_ -‘

‘C’mon now, ‘Liza. No need to go gettin’ your panties in a twist,’ Thermite drawls, cheerfully ignoring his redheaded voice of reason. Letting out an audible grunt, the Marine heaves the wood into the air, tossing it onto the bed of coals smouldering by their feet. Muscles noticeably straining in corded biceps. ‘See, there ain’t nothin’ to be worryin’ over-’

There’s an almighty _whoosh_ , followed quickly by a surprised yelp.

‘Well hot damn-‘

Flames that had long since settled suddenly roar back to life. Fierce, and angry - the heat enough to scald. Ash has just enough time to smack her drunken teammate on the arm, and then Maverick’s lithe frame is stepping between her and the fire pit, instinctively body-checking her back to safety.

Lion let’s his gaze linger for a beat, making sure the only wounds from the Chief’s sudden pyrotechnics are pride before trudging on, crooked nose wrinkling at the musty scent of burning oak. Sniffing loudly enough to earn an irritated look from Caveira, he tugs his fleece jacket more tightly around himself and weaves in and out of the fold-out chairs, steel-capped boot accidentally knocking over a beer can.

Glancing down to see the amber liquid slowly dissolving into a patch of soil, Lion soon realises his luck when he finds the shadowy silhouette of Smoke sprawled out in the grass like a starfish, blissfully unaware that his fingers had nearly been crushed.

‘- same thing bloody over and over again ‘n thinking it’ll change is like the definition of insanity, innit?’ The man is saying, alcohol turning him strangely philosophical. Gesturing emphatically at nothing in particular, Smoke keeps going, his voice taking on a hoarse quality. ‘If a dog barks five times in a row, are you gonna expect the bastard to say ‘Hello’ on the sixth?’

Leaning against the Brit’s prone body, small of his back nestled against the older man’s right side, Mozzie sits nursing a bottle of _Foster's_ against his chest – blue eyes widening in the face of a man recently enlightened. ‘That’s ground-breaking, mate.’

It’s the Australian accent that gives away their resident daredevil in the low-light – Lion’s brow creasing as he stares at them with thinly veiled confusion. _What?_

A faint rustling of cloth alerts him to a third presence and the CBRN specialist turns, becoming unnervingly aware of the hunter lurking in his blind spot. Silent, and rigid, it’s impossible not to recognize the squared stance and arms loosely crossed over a familiar, grey hoodie.

Kapkan’s tone carries an underlying edge, when he finally speaks. ‘… Are you calling me a dog?’

_Nope._

Not harbouring even an inkling of guilt as he moves around the two operatives – both of them more akin to unsuspecting ducklings in their current state – Lion makes his exit without a second thought, briskly walking away from the next Cold War.

(They’ll be fine.)

(…Maybe.)

Hands tucked into his pockets, he’s halfway across the clearing – side-stepping a teetering Valkyrie, his elbow surreptitiously bumping her back towards the less intoxicated Clash for support – when he finally spots an empty camping chair on the outer edge of the social circle. Quiet and off the beaten track.

Just the way he likes it.

Sidling up to the seat, Lion takes it, ignoring the creaking groan as the heavy-duty material flexes – his focus already shifting to the hulking Russian sitting on his left. It’s not like Tachanka to avoid the life of the party, though from his peaceful expression, Lion doesn’t think there’s a need to worry.

(Best to check, though.)

(Just in case.)

‘What is that?’ Lion asks the bear of a man as a way to break the ice, waiting for him to glance over before nodding to the red, plastic cup Tachanka is holding in his lap.

It takes a beat for the Russian to register the question, and then there’s a laugh. ‘Elzbieta called it a screwdriver,’ Tachanka rasps, peering into the depths of his drink as though it might explain what the littlest Bosak clearly had not. ‘Want to try it?’

The easy, polite ‘ _non, merci_ ’ doesn’t quite make it to his lips before Tachanka’s knuckles lightly graze his arm, offering the cup. This close and Lion can smell the spirits, a long-buried part of him waking with a soft purr. He doesn’t touch liquor, normally. Doesn’t like what it can turn him into, when he’s alone. But he’s not alone now, and Lion gives in to temptation, deciding that he can handle it.

One quick sip later and he's wincing, eyes watering as a familiar burn starts searing his throat.

‘This is not a screwdriver, Senaviev…’ The CBRN specialist says, suppressing a cough and desperately trying not to gag. _He’s out of practice_. ‘This is straight vodka.’

‘Oh?’ The Russian doesn’t seem particularly concerned, reaching across to slap Lion on the back, assuming it would help. 'There was apple juice in there at one point...'

Jerking forward a little at the force of Tachanka’s blow, Lion returns the cup with a judgemental side-eye, not particularly impressed by the Russian’s talent for chugging vodka like water. ‘You should drink less, no?’

Tachanka grins wolfishly, never one to assume it's personal. ‘You should drink more, _da_?’

_Lost cause._

Shaking his head, Lion chooses to bow out, knowing this thread would inevitably lead to nowhere and letting the conversation lull. Turning his gaze towards the crowds dotted around the camp instead, he leans into his chair, watching his rowdy teammates let loose and have fun after a long day of trudging through muck on yet another training exercise. There’s a charm in it. A kind of warmth that Lion enjoys even though he's not a part of it, and he starts settling in for the long haul. Right up until the stumbling shape of a man he’s always known to keep himself straight when his team need a watchful eye, nearly trips on his own feet on his way down to their tents.

‘Senaviev…’

‘Hm?’ The Russian intones, still alert despite finishing another shot.

Lion is frowning, fingers drumming against his thigh. ‘How much has Baker had to drink?’

‘Nothing.’

It's fine.

He's sure that it's fine.

Really.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Lion looks away from the old, stumbling bastard, resolute in his decision not to grudgingly follow the older man's footsteps.

'...Maybe he's having a stroke,' Tachanka comments offhandedly, like he's discussing the weather.

Almost instantly, Lion breaks.

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

_Thump!_

It’s heavy, and loud. Like something large had hit the floor without anything to soften the impact. Quickening his pace, Lion shines his torchlight at the ground – actively dodging a confusing minefield of ropes and tent pegs as concern knots in his gut.

‘Baker?’

He’s not using his inside voice, some parts of him wanting to hear the old bastard telling him to get nicked. But that doesn’t happen, a pained groan answering him instead.

Pulling back the tent flap with his wrist, Lion climbs through the entrance, the bright beam of his torch darting across canvas, discarded packs and rumpled bedding before landing on the dishevelled, and rather disgruntled looking Thatcher.

Lying on his stomach, buttoned shirt tugged up to reveal flushed skin, Thatcher grunts, his palms pressed flat against the tent’s tarp base. Trembling arms are struggling to push him back upright as he turns to glare, blown pupils rapidly reducing to pinpricks as the harsh light hits, making him squint. Recognition deepening the frown lines in his face.

Thatcher nudges onto his side, running an agitated hand through his messy, brown hair - rough baritone echoing anger. ‘… _Fook off_.’

(Some things never change.)

(He’s almost relieved.)

For once Lion ignores the bait, his tempest temper kept in check by the often inner medic hiding in the depths of his sharp, arrogant personality. Popping the torch handle into his mouth and clenching it between his teeth, he crosses the distance between them in one stride, hands reaching out for the older man.

It felt wrong, seeing Thatcher like that. Seeing him down, and on the edge of vulnerable. Holding onto his pride, despite how clearly Lion can see right through it. And when Lion’s fingers graze the fabric of Thatcher’s shirt, only to be knocked aside with a less than friendly **_thw **a** ck!_** that’s hard enough to sting, Lion simply rolls his eyes, shoving away the forearm trying to block his help.

Digging one arm beneath Thatcher, Lion wraps it around his waist before hooking his other under the man’s armpit. Tensing at the unwanted touch, Thatcher growls when Lion steps back – entire body twitching as he’s hauled onto his arse, Lion only letting go once the he's stable enough not to topple.

‘Age finally catching up to you, hm?’ Lion asks, the jibe murmured into Thatcher’s ear once the CBRN specialist spits out his torch. Wiping his free hand on his jeans, palms damp after sliding over sweat-slick skin, Lion tries to start a physical exam, mouth pressing into a disapproving line when Thatcher tugs his head out of reach. ‘ _Branleur_ -‘

Thatcher scowls, craggy face tight with annoyance. ‘I told you to fook off-‘

‘ _Yes._ ’ It doesn’t escape Lion’s notice that the older man’s lips are cracked, peeling. ‘And I didn’t listen because like usual, you are full of shit _-_ ’

‘That right?’ Perhaps knowing that a punch would do very little to wipe the arrogance from Lion’s haughty expression, Thatcher glowers up at him through furrowed brows. Burning stare conveying every ounce of disdain he usually holds in reserve for the younger man. ‘Find your bedside manner in a cereal box?’

Joints creaking in protest, Lion slowly lowers himself into a crouch, head cocking to the side as he props his elbow on his knee. In honesty, he’d started learning combat medicine during basic training, eventually refining his skills at the French Army’s CBRN School in Saumur when he’d joined the 2nd Dragoon Regiment. Yet past experience has taught him that trying to clap back against the older man with his official military record usually ended with a dismissive snort.

Thatcher always one to put more stock in actions, over words.

‘If you’d rather have someone who will hold your hand,’ Lion says, mocking lilt in his tone. ‘I can go and get Kateb?’

‘I don’t need a wet nurse.’

‘That’s good,’ flicking his wrist, Lion takes advantage of the distraction, blinding Thatcher with a quick flash. Like before, Thatcher’s gaze adjusts reflexively to the light, proving that he hasn’t cracked his skull too hard in the fall. ‘Because if you try sucking on me, the only thing you’ll get is disappointment.’

There’s a pause that’s deafeningly loud.

Thatcher – who’d nearly closed his eyes against Lion’s kind intentions like the ornery bastard he was – leaves an eyelid cracked, bemusement creeping into features that’d previously been tempered by fury. An instant later and Lion’s heart skips a beat when the corner of Thatcher’s mouth slowly ticks upwards, the younger man’s ears turning pink when he realises he’s being smirked at.

‘…Shut up,’ Lion finally mutters, never having gotten along well with the sharp prick of embarrassment.

A strong breeze could have blown the older man over – Thatcher swaying, unsteady, but still alert enough to point out that he hadn’t said anything at all. ‘Hearing voices now, eh?’

‘ _Pour l'amour de Dieu_ …’ Lion rubs at the back of his neck, glancing imploringly towards the tent’s sloped ceiling – silver rosary an ever-present weight against his chest. ‘You just had a very expressive… face journey, no?’

‘Face journey?’ It’s almost a physical feeling, falling back out of Thatcher’s good graces – the Brit’s voice dripping scorn. Always unimpressed by the new, generational culture built in the digital age. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with Grace.’

‘Some of us don’t like living in the dark-‘

Lion’s reacting. More so because Grace Nam is one of the few people on the task force that he actually gets along with, their shared confidence and love for winning routinely putting them on the same side of the same team. Not to mention that her grievances with Thatcher tended to mirror his own these days. But right now, as the barb slips from his tongue, it gets caught in his throat – compassion fluttering to life, when a tremor visibly wracks his impromptu patient.

‘Go on,’ the Brit dares him through grit teeth, even as he plants both hands on the sleeping bag he’s sitting on to maintain balance.

 _… And let us not grow weary of doing good_.

‘… Never mind.’ In a rare display of altruism, Lion takes a breath – holding it for a moment, before exhaling noisily. ‘I came to make sure you weren’t having a stroke, not – well. Not this, yes?’ The truth settles uneasily around him, Lion not quite able to meet Thatcher’s hooded gaze – and that’s what makes his next move awkward. What makes Thatcher eye the hand Lion presses to his face like it’s a soiled dish rag, as the CBRN specialist clumsily dabs his knuckles against Thatcher’s forehead. ‘You’re hot-‘

‘Hm,’ the older man rumbles, interrupting. ‘…You aren’t my type.’

‘… I meant that you have a _fever_ ,’ Lion says, barely resisting the urge to flick Thatcher on the nose as his own ears burn a deeper shade of red. He’d returned to the Catholic faith years ago, that was true. But that didn’t changed the fact that he was a thirty-one year old man with a rugged face and healthy sex drive. Preaching abstinence had never been as satisfying as hungry kisses and the heat of another beneath him as he-

Swallowing hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobs in the low-light, Lion tries to mentally shake the sense of being off-balance – never having experienced Thatcher _playing_ with him before. ‘Do you know why you might have one? A fever, I mean…’

(Best to fall back on professionalism, in times of uncertainty.)

(Lion acutely aware of Thatcher’s eyes as they linger on his neck.)

‘…That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’

 _Of course you are going to be a pain in my arse._ Lion wipes away his scowl as it forms – rubbing his chin, nails scratching across stubble. He’s going to have to pry, despite knowing it hasn’t ended well in the past. 'Have you been drinking?'

The question snaps the older man’s focus back to eye level. ‘Keep gabbing and I might start.’

 _Not helpful, Baker._ Considering that Senaviev was several shots from becoming the liquor he’d been drinking when he had vouched for Thatcher sobriety, Lion had thought it best to ask. ‘Did you eat anything strange?’ The CBRN specialist continues to prod, deciding to take the older man at his word. It’s not like he could smell the spiced whisky Thatcher had a habit of bringing on these training ops, anyway. ‘Maybe cut yourself when we were trekking up to the peak, or got bitten by something?’

‘No,’ is the response, blunt delivery imply thing that Lion’s barking up the wrong tree with this interrogation.

Having spent a fair amount of his career dealing with infantrymen who thought they could walk off a bullet wound with sheer determination alone and aware that the tradition itself was rooted in the hardened men and women who’d served before them, Lion doesn’t take it to heart. ‘Runny nose, sore throat?’

This time, Thatcher _harrumphs_.

An Old Breed, through and through.

‘Normal people don’t communicate like a caveman, Baker,’ Lion says, reprimanding in his usual style – thinly veiled insults, first. Frustrated that there’s not much to go on, the younger man glances down to study his boots, ticking over the list of possibilities. His best guess is that this is a viral fever, and those were often caused by inhalation, ingestion, insect bites or the transmission of bodily fluids. Off the bat, Lion could cross out the first and last options with relative surety, since nobody else seemed sick. But the other two could easily be the cause without Thatcher even knowing, and if they were, it would be impossible to diagnose what was actually wrong…

At a loss, Lion swears under his breath, fingers tapping against the cold metal of his torch until an idea strikes. ‘…Where’s your first aid kit?’

If he can’t find the problem, then he’ll deal with the symptoms.

Lion is already scouring the inside of the tent – torch beam illuminating the rippling canvas sides like a searchlight. Stacked to the left of the zip door are two camelback packs, an ALICE harness equipped with military-grade non-lethals, and a single pair of SAS issue combat boots. Further to the right of those and there's a pile of neatly folded clothes sitting opposite a mess of crumpled shirts and odd socks. Thatcher’s gear, Lion knows, though Smoke had managed to sprinkle a few of his own things into the mix.

Beam passing back over the older man’s sock-covered feet, Lion’s only answer is a noncommittal blink - Thatcher leaving the CBRN specialist to find the first aid kit buried under a small collection of bottles and protein bars himself.

‘ _Je t'ai trouvé,_ ’ the younger man says, accidentally bumping into Thatcher’s shoulder when he leans around him to snag the kit’s handle.

‘Go easy-‘

As if in silent apology, Lion pushes his free hand against the older man’s ribcage, steadying him gently while picking up his prize. The kit is heavier than the average, giving him hope that despite its generic Walmart branding, someone had re-stocked it appropriately.

With both the torch and Thatcher still in his grip, it takes some gymnastics to unzip the medical bag once he drops it to the ground in front of them both, pinched fingers dragging the kit around the floor as he opens it – eventually peeling back the lid to reveal dozens of plastic-wrapped ban-aids, bandages and gauze. It’s disorganised, and confusing – Lion having to sift through nitrile gloves and two boxes of cotton swabs before finding what he’s looking for, plucking it out with triumph.

‘Try sticking that in me,’ Thatcher warns lowly, immediately recognizing the oral thermometer the younger man’s brandishing. ‘And I’ll stick something else in you, Flament.’

Quiet settles over them like a blanket – Lion cocking an eyebrow, when his gaze meets Thatcher’s again. **_This_** _is where you draw the line, huh?_ A smirk of his own tugs at his mouth, the opportunity just too sweet to miss. ‘…I thought I wasn’t your type?’

For as long as they’ve known each other, Thatcher has never been the first to break eye contact, stubborn as a mule and well-versed in the art of intimidation.

And yet?

Tired, brown eyes dip to Lion’s angular cheekbones, then to his lips. Studying with an intensity that makes Lion’s breath catch, before slowly drifting back to where they’d started. There’s a sniff, lacking its usual animosity, and Lion could say something. Could call it out, even as a strange kind of heat coils inside of him.

_What would Baker taste like-_

**_Non._ **

‘If your temperature is over 39, you know I have to take you back to base,’ Lion says, trying not to panic over the fact that kissing Mike Baker had just crossed his mind, and desperate enough to use his authority as a medic to deflect from the tension hanging in the air. Tension that’d suddenly become far less angry than it should’ve been. ‘If it’s below, then I won’t make you go anywhere-’

‘Make me, eh?’

It’s their usual dance.

Thatcher always highly amused at the idea that Lion could beat him at anything, though the sardonic note Lion often hears is absent.

‘I expect it would be an unpleasant experience for both of us, yes?’ Lion offers with a few shreds of humility – generally not the type to admit when he might lose. Uncapping the thermometer, he nudges the tip against Thatcher’s lower lip, letting it rest on the soft pink. ‘So open wide and say ‘ah’, hm? I’d rather not make you hurt any more than you already are.’

The half-sneer forming on Thatcher’s features seems to falter – Lion’s last admission slipping past the older man’s bullshit detector without triggering an alarm. Irritation that’s written in every line of his shivering body doesn’t ease, not even a little, in spite of Thatcher slowly, grudgingly, doing exactly what he’s been told.

Lion pops the thermometer under the older man’s tongue without any fanfare, and then releases it. Letting Thatcher fidget and roll it about until it’s in a place that he likes, Lion rotates his wrist, peering down at the glowing face of his G-Shock watch. Not allowing the arsehole part of himself to utter the mocking ‘ _good boy_ ’ that’d briefly tickled his tongue, instead choosing to hum with gratitude.

‘ _Merci_.’

Another grunt proves that Thatcher’s hearing is intact, the man’s heartbeat becoming all the more noticeable in the hush that follows as it flutters against the palm Lion still has plastered to Thatcher’s ribcage. Rhythmic thrum almost distracting while Lion counts the time, his attention locked on the blocky, digital numbers changing on the clock's screen.

A minute later and there’s a high-pitched, beeping whine.

Retrieving the thermometer with a tug, Lion checks the shiny, green reading - ire immediately starting to prickle. _Why can it not be simple?_

Thatcher barely gives him a second, impatience thick and fast in a man who’d been looking for his bed less than a half hour ago. ‘What’s the verdict, then?’

‘You are .3 degrees away from a high fever,’ Lion says, close to grumbling. He turns the thermometer towards the older man so Thatcher can see the pulsing 38.7°C for himself, now unsure of what to do.

Not interested in being handed problems, Thatcher barely pays it any mind. 'And?'  
  
'Well, I don't-' Letting go of the older man, Lion rubs at the back of his neck out of habit, red creeping up his skin. Indecision has always been his downfall, making him second guess every action he's made or is about to make despite his first choice often being the right one. Thatcher knew that about him, holding it over Lion's head whenever he was chosen as field commander in Lion’s place. It was that history between them which made this ten times worse, his next words coming out strangled, as though his own body had fought to keep them down. 'I don't know. Maybe I should get Kateb-'  
  
It hurts to say, stinging his pride. But while his dislike for Doc is strong, perhaps even stronger than his dislike for Thatcher, Lion knows the facts.  
  
Compared to Rainbow's chief medic, he’s little more than a weekend warrior.

(Or weekend doctor, as it were.)  
  
And while Lion would have put most of his other teammates to bed with a dose of medicine, Thatcher _is_ old. Flecks of salt and pepper in his hair making him more vulnerable to infection - the older man already struck by a rising fever. The risk is higher for him, and Lion doesn't like it, pushing onto his feet to hunt that second opinion.   
  
He doesn't get very far.  
  
Rough fingers fist in the collar of his shirt before he’s out of reach, surprise rather than strength making him unbalanced. Lion yelps, eyes widening when Thatcher, smart bastard that he was, simply rocks backwards – using his full weight to anchor the younger man in place. Except Lion isn’t ready for it, teetering in the tight space. Bulky frame suddenly crashing forwards, when Thatcher let’s himself topple over backwards.

‘ _Merde!_ ’

Panic hits like a hot knife – Lion’s descent far less graceful, as his legs and arms pinwheel uselessly, breath coming in heavy pants. Adrenaline has his nerves standing on end when his knees finally crack against the floor, one on each side of Thatcher’s hips, while his hands land on each side of the older man’s head, pain flaring in his joints from the jarring stop.

It takes Lion a minute to come back to it, tip of his crooked nose brushing Thatcher’s while his thoughts are scrambled, and screaming. He hadn’t wanted to hit his teammate. Hadn’t wanted to hurt him, and as the fog starts to clear, Lion finds himself staring down at that same smug smirk, concern vanishing as his spine arches like an angry cat’s.

Lion’s going to find a cliff.

Lion’s going to find a cliff and he’s going to _throw_ Baker right off of-

'Back yourself, Flament,' the deep baritone of Thatcher rumbles right in his ear, disrupting the thought. Disrupting every single synapse firing deep in his brain, the sentiment so utterly different to the context of their relationship that he completely freezes again, not able to tell if this is a joke, or an insult.

Or an olive branch, extended with the worst possible timing.   
  
Still fuming from his new, forced predicament, Lion feels his mouth open and close, soundless, for a beat before he manages to respond – defaulting to familiar territory with an indignant hiss. 'I do-'  
  
Thatcher shakes his head – gaze knowing as it drills straight through the defences Lion has built over the years, their proximity giving away too many secrets. 'You worry too much.'

 _He doesn’t_. Not really, though Lion will admit that it’s cruel to be a complete arsehole to the sick. It always has been, especially now after he's sworn to live by the word of God. Caring, worrying and looking out for his fellow man. They were the righteous choices. The only choices he should be making.

So maybe… maybe he does worry, just a little.

Just enough to stop someone from feeling alone in a time of need.  
  
Licking at his dry lips, Lion refuses to take Thatcher calling out his weakness – his rosary now hanging at the end of its chain, having slipped from his jacket in the fall, and dangling above Thatcher’s bare neck. 'Perhaps you don't worry enough.'  
  
'I worry just fine, lad,' Thatcher says, counting his fifty-six years of life as proof enough of that fact. ‘Now, how about you give me a reason to worry, eh? Then you can go chasing after Gustave.’ It’s a challenge – Lion fully aware that Thatcher wasn’t about to acknowledge his illness unless he happened to lose a limb in the next five minutes. ‘Or you can put your big boy pants on and tell me what you need to get your head sorted.’

If he wanted to, he could drag Thatcher out of his tent.

Could haul him over to the make-shift infirmary across camp and leave him spitting fire in Kateb’s lap.

But only if he wanted to.

And as he stares at the SAS legend beneath him, overwhelmed by softness in an expression that has only ever been unwelcoming, Lion quietly accepts that he doesn’t want to.

‘…Take a couple of Tylenol and drink some water,’ the CBRN specialist concedes, ignoring the anxiety flickering in the background – refusing to let it change his final decision. ‘If that doesn’t help your fever go down within the next hour, then I will take you to Kateb.’

It hangs in the air, the ultimatum.

Thatcher visibly mulling it over, attention never leaving Lion.

(His next action less for himself, than it is for the younger man.)

‘Alright, then,’ a hand claps Lion’s tensed shoulder – Thatcher’s agreement setting Lion on edge, with how easily it’s given. ‘See, having a pair of bollocks isn’t so hard, is it?’

Whatever moment they’d been having ends abruptly, Lion huffing an exasperated sigh.

_He should have seen that coming…_

Rolling off the old bastard, careful not to hit him, still shivering as he is, Lion drags himself upright, grunting, and resettles, sitting cross-legged by the first aid kit. Dipping his fingers back into the medical supplies, he cards through sterile, plastic-covered dressings, searching for the box of American branded acetaminophen he’d glimpsed earlier. A low, gravelly ‘uh-huh’ resonating from his chest when he finds the packet - Lion turning it over in his hands before tossing it at Thatcher.

‘Take two,’ the CBRN specialist orders, watching the older man’s delayed reaction. Propped up on an elbow, the Tylenol bounces off Thatcher’s sweaty collarbone – nearly dropping to the floor, until a calloused hand makes a deft enough grab to snatch it mid-air. ‘With water, okay?’

There’s the tearing of cardboard, quickly followed by the rustle of splitting foil. Thatcher pops two pills into his palm, shaking them around a bit so they rattle. Reaching down to his own belt, Lion eases his canteen from the pouch strapped to his waist, unscrewing the lid and cleaning the mouthpiece with his sleeve before offering it. ‘Here, Baker. Take mine.’

(It’s safer, since Lion isn’t sick.)

Opposite him and Thatcher takes his medicine with a grimace, cracking the tablets between his teeth. Not caring for the taste. For a moment it almost seems like the older man is going to be stubborn again, forcing himself to swallow them dry.

But then there’s warmth, brushing against Lion’s wrist.

Relief washes over him – Lion relaxing slightly as Thatcher gulps down half a litre of water in one go, saving Lion from having to make the demand. Keeping his fluids up was important, and Thatcher knew it, his grumpy disposition not reflective of the fact that he did happen to have a glimmer of common sense.

Wiping the wetness from his mouth, Thatcher sets aside the empty canteen, glancing back to the younger man through heavy eyelids. 'You leaving?'

It’s a fair question.

Lion supposes it makes sense, considering that he’s won. Of course he’d compromised, too – both of them pushing towards middle ground. But he’d still won, and perhaps that should have been it. Perhaps he should take the trophy of having Thatcher listen to him for once and be done.

  
He entertains the idea for a second, knowing that he can’t.

That he won’t.

The medic in him refusing to let him be that selfish.

'...No.' Lion finds himself muttering soon enough, awkward and out of place in a tent that isn’t his. 'Someone has to make sure you don't die.'

'Suit yourself,' gingerly settling back against his one flat pillow; Thatcher doesn’t seem all that surprised. ‘Do us a favour and lie down, eh? I can't sleep with you hovering in the dark.'

‘Ah…‘

It doesn't feel right, taking someone else’s bed. But the only spot Lion can even hope to lie down is on Porter’s navy-blue sleeping bag, hesitation striking. Naking him pause long enough for Thatcher to notice.

Seconds later and Lion barely has time to react as a pillow smacks him square in the face.  
  
'Go on,' Thatcher says, feigning ignorance at the younger man’s outraged bristling. 'I doubt he's wanked in it yet.'

Hidden behind a brick of cotton that smells strongly of tobacco, Lion’s features seize in disgust. Peeling away the offensive pillow, Lion throws it back to where it belongs – sharp, blue gaze glaring at Thatcher, before he slowly crawls after it.

‘Remember, Baker,’ he says, lowering himself onto the sleeping bag’s outer canvas and rolling onto his side. ‘I’m waking you up in an hour.’

In the light summer heat, Thatcher’s eyes are already closed.

‘Mhm.’

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

_1:00 AM._

‘Baker,’ Lion shakes the older man softly, trying to coax him from sleep. ‘Baker, it’s time to wake up.’

It takes a few more nudges before Thatcher stirs – bleary-eyed and starkly unhappy, as a groan tears itself from his lips. Shielding his eyes with his forearm, it takes another insistent nudge before the older man lowers it, brows furrowing in consternation.

‘You’re still ‘ere?’

Uncapping the thermometer in the light of his torch, Lion gives Thatcher a _look –_ warring between concerned and annoyed at the slow uptake _._ ‘Yes.’

‘Thought you were a dream.’

‘Do you dream about me often?’

Thatcher grumbles noisily, rubbing at the thin layer of fabric covering his chest. ‘…Wanker.’

‘I won’t hold that against you,’ the half-smirk he’s wearing is teasing. Lacking the cocky edge that always seemed to raise the older man’s hackles, and Lion doesn’t know why. Doesn’t even think about it as he leans over Thatcher, brandishing the thermometer, for once not intentionally looking down his nose at the other man. ‘So long as you keep up your half of the deal, Baker.’

A snort sounds, mildly amused.

This is where Thatcher would usually tell him to fuck off, insult butchered slightly in that thick accent of his.

Usually.

One arm tucked behind his head, Thatcher lifts the other from his shirt and wordlessly plucks the thermometer from Lion’s grip. Squinting again in the low-light, the older man brings it up to eye-level, making sure it’s the right way around before sliding it under his tongue.

_And people say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks…_

Lion fidgets, waiting, fingers idly playing with the band of his G-Shock as he watches the glowing milliseconds tick down. Pressure building in his lungs.

A minute passes before the familiar beep breaks their comfortable silence, Lion letting out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

_37.8°C._

_He’d guessed right._

‘…It’s coming down,’ Lion says quietly, bone-deep calm twining around him. Relaxing tense muscles and raw nerves that hadn’t been able to settle for the full hour he’d laid awake listening to the older man’s breathing.

Thatcher spits out the thermometer, handing it back with a grunt. ‘You sound relieved.’

Lost in the pure feeling of success, of having someone rely on him and not dropping the ball as he often seemed to do, Lion smiles openly for the first time all night, all week – roguish dimples and concealed laugh lines blazing to life for the briefest of moments. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

He’s handsome, like that.

Giving Thatcher pause, the older man staring, tired gaze brightening in the dark as he's completely transfixed by the change. It’s not long before he’s got a half-smile of his own, hand gently patting the younger man’s knee. Firm, kind. Thatcher not wanting to leave him unrewarded.

‘…You’re a good lad, Flament.’

If anything, Lion smiles harder.

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *


End file.
